ess to resist him. Let us,
therefore, submit."

"No," exclaimed Schill, rising, "no, let us not submit. When a whole
nation arouses itself, and shakes its lion's mane, there is no hand,
even though it were an iron one, that could hold and subdue it."

"But our nation will not rise again--it has been crushed," said Pueckler,
mournfully. "It is sleeping the sleep of death."

"No, it has not been crushed. No, it will not die!" exclaimed Schill, in
an outburst of generous rage. "It is only necessary to instill genuine
vitality into its veins, and to awaken it from its lethargy by
soul-stirring exhortations, as our young friend here encouraged and
strengthened us an hour ago by his noble song. Oh, sing again, friend
Staps! Purify the air--which is still infected by the words of the
imperial bulletin--purify it by another German song, and let the native
oak, which has listened to our disgrace, now hear also manly words.
Sing! and may your voice reach our poor soldiers who are closing their
eyes on the battle-field; and may it breathe the consolation into their
ears, 'You die for Germany, but Germany does not die--she lives, and
will rise again!'"

"Yes, I will sing," said Frederick Staps, enthusiastically, "but I wish
that every note issuing from my breast would transform itself into a
sword, and strike around with the storm's resistless fury!"

"In that case all of us, and yourself, too, would be the first victims,"
said Pueckler, with a melancholy smile.

"Of what consequence are our lives, if they are given up for the
fatherland?" exclaimed Staps, fervently. "Oh, believe me, I could, like
Mucius Scaevola, lay my hand on the red-hot iron, and not wince, but
sing jubilant hymns, if I thought that my torture would be useful to my
country. Now, I can only sing, only pray, only weep. But who knows
whether I shall not become one day a modern Mucius Scaevola, a modern
Moeros, and deliver the world from its tyrant?"

And suddenly raising his voice, with a radiant face, he began to sing:

Frisch auf! Es ruft das Vaterland
Die Maenner in die Schlacht.
Frisch auf! Zu daempfen Trug und Schand!
Heran mit Macht, mit Macht!
Heran und braucht den Maennerleib,
Wozu ihn Gott gebaut:
Zum Schirm der Jungfrau und dem Weib,
Dem Saeugling und der Braut!

Denn ein Tyrann mit Luegenwort
Und Strick und Henkerschwert,
Uebt in dem Vaterlande Mord,
Und schaendet Thron u